Death and the Penguin (15 page)

Viktor got out. Surveying the scene, he saw a crowd of people about 50 metres away, and from the opposite direction, two skinny-looking cemetery hands in quilted jackets and trousers, both full of holes, were approaching.

“This the scientist?” asked one.

“Let’s have him then,” said the other with a jerk of the head.

They lowered the coffin to the ground beside the grave. One fetched a coil of stout rope and arranged it for the lowering of the coffin.

Viktor slipped back to the bus, lifted Misha out, and set him down. The rope-arranger looked askance, but worked on.

“Poor send-off, this, isn’t it?” the other workman asked the driver. “No priest, no speech.”

The driver looked pointedly in Viktor’s direction to shut him up.

Having lowered the coffin, the workmen turned expectantly to the man with the penguin.

Going to the graveside, Viktor dropped the flowers onto the coffin lid, followed by a handful of earth.

The workmen plied their spades and in ten minutes the grave was formed. They then went their way, each with a million tip in the inflated currency of the country, saying he should look them up in May, when the grave had settled. Cosmetician and undertaker departed in the bus, and Viktor, who had declined the offer of a lift to the entrance, was left alone with Misha.

Misha was standing stiffly by the grave, as though deep in thought, and looking across at the neighbouring funeral. Viktor found its intrusive noise more than a little irritating.

It was odd to be playing sole mourner. Where were the friends, the relatives? Or had Pidpaly outlived them? More than likely. And, but for Viktor’s interest in penguins, who would there have been to bury him, and where?

Cheeks nipped by the cold, gloveless hands freezing, he looked about him. He had no idea how to find his way out, but he wasn’t worried.

“Well Misha,” he sighed, stooping to the penguin’s level, “that’s how we humans bury our dead.”

Turning at the sound of his master’s voice, Misha fixed on him his tiny sad eyes.

“So, shall we look for the exit?” Viktor asked, and taking a more determined look around, saw a man heading towards them from the other funeral.

The man waved, and since there was no one else for him to wave at, Viktor stood and waited.

The man was short, bearded, and had binoculars slung about his
Alaska
anorak. Strange attire for a funeral, but his face seemed vaguely familiar.

“Sorry,” he said. “But checking this sector” – he patted his binoculars – “and spying an animal known to me, I thought I’d pop over. New Year. Militia dachas. Remember?”

Viktor nodded.

“Lyosha,” the bearded man said, extending his hand.

“Viktor.”

They shook hands.

“Friend of yours?” Lyosha asked, indicating the grave.

“Yes.”

“We’re burying three,” he sighed sadly.

Squatting down in front of Misha, he slapped him on the shoulder.

“Hi, Penguin. How are you doing? Afraid I’ve forgotten his name,” he said, looking up.

“Misha.”

“Ah, that’s it, Misha! Bird in a suit … Handsome fellow!”

Straightening up, Lyosha looked back at his funeral.

“Do you know the way out?” Viktor asked.

Lyosha looked around.

“I don’t … But if you’re not in any hurry, hang on and I’ll
give you a lift. We’ve nearly finished over there. The priest’s a bore – half an hour’s Bible over each one … You wait here – I’ll give a wave when we’re through.”

Some 20 minutes later, Viktor saw movement in the crowd of mourners. They were dispersing. The flashy foreign-made cars were starting up. He looked hard for the bearded Lyosha, but having no binoculars, found his eyes watering from the icy wind. At last he saw someone waving.

“Come on, Misha,” he said, taking a few steps and looking back, and slowly Misha followed.

By the time they arrived at the three wreath-heaped graves, only one car, an elderly Mercedes, was left.

“I’ll drive you home if you like,” said Lyosha, while still negotiating the cemetery. “Never does to be first at the wake.”

Viktor readily accepted, and half an hour later was outside his block.

“Take my phone number – maybe we’ll meet again,” said Lyosha handing him his card. “And let me have yours, just in case.”

Pocketing the card, Viktor wrote his number on the dashboard notepad.

Towards evening Nina made ready to leave.

“Won’t you stay?” Viktor asked. “For the funeral supper.”

He looked weary, and sounded unsure of himself. She nodded.

“You go and sit with Sonya – I’ll think what to eat,” she said.

He went into the living room where Sonya had already
switched the television on. Nina headed for the kitchen.

“What’s it today?” he asked, sitting beside Sonya.

“
Elvira
, episode five,” was the ready reply.

Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped her nose.

A lengthy commercial break was in progress. To spare his eyes the short sharp kaleidoscopic flashes, he looked at the floor, while Sonya feasted on them.

Eventually the frantic succession of commercials finished, to be followed by the serial credits and an enervating torrent of sickly music.

“Wouldn’t you like to go to bed?” he asked.

“No,” said the little girl, eyes riveted on the screen. “Would you?”

He said nothing. The treacly sweet Latin-Americanness of the characters was beginning to irritate him. He had no wish to enter into what was happening on the screen. He looked around for Misha, but he wasn’t there. He was in the bedroom, standing still as a statue in his hidey-hole behind the dark-green settee. Viktor squatted down beside him.

“How are we?” he asked, patting a black shoulder.

Misha gave him a look, then stared at the floor.

Viktor found himself thinking of Pidpaly – how he had shaved him, what the old man had asked him to do, and how he had promised to do it, a memory he at once shelved, though with a shiver running down his spine.

Result of standing about at the cemetery, he thought.

He remembered how lightly, and without posture, the old penguinologist had faced imminent death.
I’ve no unfinished business
he had said. Viktor shook his head in sheer amazement, at which Misha stepped back and eyed him in alarm.

And nor have I, he thought, though the falsity of this brought a guilty smile to his face.

He did in fact have business to finish, and even if he hadn’t, was hardly likely to treat the approach of death so lightly.
A hard life is better than an easy death
he had once written in his notebook. It was a phrase he had taken pride in for a time, trotting it out when appropriate and when not, and then forgotten. And here it was years later, floating to the surface of his memory, after Pidpaly’s words that had so affected him. Two men, different ages, different attitudes.

Seeing his master squatting motionless, lost in thought, Misha came and nuzzled his neck with his beak, a chilly show of tenderness that broke Viktor’s train of thought and roused him from his reverie. He stroked the penguin, sighed, straightened up and went over to the window.

The block opposite presented a crossword pattern of lighted windows. It was a crossword with many spaces. They were testimonies to the sheer ordinariness of life, those windows. There was a sadness about it, but a sadness softened, allayed, by darkness. And by degrees, a strange, slightly unnatural calm, like the lull before a storm, possessed him. Palms resting on the cold window sill, legs against the hot radiator, he stood, aware how temporary it was, that calm, and waiting for it to pass.

A little later, at the sound of gentle breathing, he swung round, and there in the half-darkness was Nina.

“It’s ready,” she whispered. “Sonya’s asleep – dropped off watching the telly.”

They went through the living room, now dimly lit by a standard lamp in the corner.

The kitchen smelt of garlic and fried potato, and on a stand
in the middle of the table reposed the covered frying pan.

“I saw you had some vodka,” Nina ventured, indicating the wall cupboard. “Shall I bring it?”

He nodded. She fetched the bottle and two small glasses, served the meat and fried potatoes, and filled their glasses.

Viktor sat in his place, Nina opposite.

“How was the funeral?” she asked.

“Quiet. No one there, except Misha and me.”

“Well, may he rest in peace!” She raised her glass before putting it to her lips.

Viktor drank too. He cut up his meat, and looking across at Nina, saw a round face all the more charming for the flush the vodka had brought to it.

He knew nothing about her, he thought suddenly, who she was, where she was from. Niece of Sergey, yes, but what did he know about
him
, beyond that he had been easy to make friends with. The
origin
of his name had been enough to engender a warm feeling towards him. The story of that seemed to set him on an invisible pedestal, elevate him to a point where delight in the man was sufficient to inspire complete confidence.

Viktor poured refills and raised his glass.

“Did you know him well?” Nina asked.

Viktor drank.

“I think so.”

“What was he?”

“A scientist. Worked at the zoo.”

She nodded, but with an expression showing plainly that interest in the deceased was now terminated.

They ate, and in deference to the occasion, drank without clinking glasses. Nina then placed their dirty plates in the sink
and put the kettle on. Waiting for it to boil, she looked out of the window, face contorted, as if in pain.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s this city, I can’t stand it … The anonymous crowds … The distances …”

“But why?” He asked in surprise.

Thrusting her hands in the pockets of her jeans, she shrugged.

“My fool of a mother threw everything over, and moved here … I wouldn’t have! Your own place with your own little garden. All yours. That’s what’s best.”

Viktor sighed. Being city-born, he had no special feeling for the country.

The kettle boiled.

Again they sat opposite each other, separated by silence, thinking their own thoughts.

Feeling sleepy, Viktor got to his feet, surprised at the heaviness of his legs.

“I’m off to bed.”

“Off you go. I’ll wash up.”

Once in bed he fell instantly asleep. Waking in the small hours because he was hot, he became aware of another warmth, that of Nina sleeping with her back to him.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he fell asleep again, satisfied, as if his doubts were dispelled, and the hand on her shoulder was a channel of vital warmth between them, precious, and no obstacle to slumber.

And again it was morning. Viktor woke with a heavy head and no Nina beside him. The clock showed 8.30.

He made his way through the living room, where Sonya was still asleep, to the kitchen. He could hear water splashing in the bathroom.

As he went to the stove to make coffee, he caught sight of an envelope on the table. It was sealed, but bore no name. Tearing it open, he extracted a folded sheet of paper and eight $100 notes.

Viktor dropped the sheet on the table, keeping hold of the dollars.

He looked into the bathroom. Nina was under the shower, the smooth lines of her body emphasized by the flow of water. Seeing him standing stiffly in the doorway, she was more surprised than embarrassed.

“Has anyone been?” he asked.

“No,” she said, staring at the dollar bills in his hand.

“How about the letter on the kitchen table?”

“I haven’t been in there yet.” She said, shrugging so that her tiny apple breasts quivered.

Shutting the bathroom door, he stood in the corridor, trying to concentrate, but distracted by the splashing. He thought back to all that had happened the evening before, to everything Nina had said at table. After which he had gone to bed, and now, next
morning, evidence of a visitor. No marks on the floor, but the evidence remained …

At this point he switched on the corridor light and examined the floor for traces of the night visitor or visitors, but there were none.

Returning to the kitchen, he made coffee and sat down at the table. He remembered his discovery of Misha-non-penguin’s note and presents before New Year. This was an exact repeat -only this time, with delivery of a letter from the Chief in place of presents.
Things on the mend
 … Did that mean there would soon be work? That he would soon be seeing the Chief and could ask what sort of postal service it was that had keys to his flat?

Keys … He got up, went and tried the door. It was tight shut. He returned to the kitchen.

He could, he comforted himself, replace the lock. There had long been plenty to choose from: alarmed, coded, electrically controlled … He might even get a couple of combination locks. His flat, personal life and sleep would then be totally secure.

Reassured, he brewed coffee for Nina, and was taking it to her when he met her coming in. She was wearing his dressing-gown.

“Just made you some coffee,” he said.

“Thanks,” she smiled, took the cup and sat down at the table.

“Vik,” her expression now was half-serious, half-entreating. “What I wanted to say …” she hesitated, as if choosing her words. “Well, it’s about us … Now we’ve somehow become a couple …”

She fell silent.

“How do you mean?” he asked, filled with unease at the ensuing pause.

“It’s my wages,” she said at last. “It means a lot to me … The money I get for Sonya.”

“Of course, and you’ll still get it,” he said in surprise. “What made you think you wouldn’t?”

She shrugged.

“Don’t you see, it’s a bit awkward – our being a couple, and me working for you at the same time.”

The heavy head he had banished with his first cup of coffee was suddenly back.

“It’s all right,” he said gravely. “Don’t worry – it’s not me who’s paying. It’s Sonya – it’s her father’s money.”